The Canon Affair
by Laukika
Summary: She's a Canon Purist, someone who despises any butchering of her precious, J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter with fan fiction. It's too bad she's been sucked into the world of fan fiction instead of the real Harry Potter. Oh dear. Well-written OC, no OC-canon pairings.


_The Canon Affair_

* * *

I jump down from the railing, and watch as Harry - "Call me Cobra" - Potter looks around warily, quickly pinpointing the loud thump to the back patio where I stood on someone's dirty porch. The state of the porch isn't that much of a surprise – the slums aren't exactly London's clean, tourist area. Broken bottles and waterlogged, torn-up newspapers spread through the alley, lending faded color to the cheap, grey concrete pavement and buildings that corner us.

I inhale to speak, and exhale immediately. The wind cuts through the buildings, bringing with it that unforgettable eau de sewage that rises from the manhole a few yards away. I wrinkle my nose and lean back, earning myself an eye roll and scoff from the ragged kid in front of me. My face heats, and I go to sit down on the patio steps like it had been the reason I moved all along, hoping that the old boards wouldn't fall in under my weight. They groan alarmingly, but hold, and I make myself comfortable for my usual speech.

"Harry," I begin, but when the black haired kid scowls and crosses his arms, I start over.

"Cobra," I say with my own eye roll. "I want to hire your services."

"Oh yeah?" says Cobra. Good – I've gotten him interested.

"No lie," I say, and put on my best honest face. "I heard from my cousin that you've been accepted to this…this…Hogwarts school, you know?"

Cobra nods slowly. "And who told your cousin?"

"I don't know," I lie. "I think a neighborhood kid." I pick at the worn, second-hand jeans I took off a clothesline. Years of experience had taught me that survival was more important than my morals, and blending in was one of those vital things I had to do in order to keep myself sane and alive. It was easier to pretend I was a local, faking a British accent and wearing similar clothes, than it was to speak my own, brash American English and feel completely out of my depth.

"Who do you want killed?"

I'm not startled by his bluntness. "A man, goes by the name Voldemort. He'll be there. I'll pay you after he's gone, and you have until the end of your seventh year to do it."

"You have the money?"

"Yes."

Cobra relaxes, and I relax, too. He believes me. He's going to go to Hogwarts. For once, this will work out.

Then he cheerfully smiles and pulls out a gun. My heart sinks.

"Bullshit," says Harry Potter. "No deal."

And in the split second between the sharp bark of the gun and the bullet impacting with my forehead, I taste the bitter, all-too-familiar flavor of failure once more.

* * *

It all began the day the day J.K. Rowling's The Deathly Hallows came out. Or, maybe to be more precise, the day after the Deathly Hallows came out, when I had finished reading it. That was it. I was almost an adult, age seventeen with my birthday fast approaching. In a brief, uncharacteristic moment, I thought of symbolism, and how the end of the Harry Potter series signaled the end of my own childhood. I had spent my last year of high school working at a part-time job in costumer service to help supplement the various scholarships I earned, and as my mom liked to remind me, I was living in the big world now, one that was meaner and tougher than I could imagine. I used to be quite the bookworm, but pleasure reading was replacing in my ever -shrinking free time by tennis and more studying, and at this point in time, the Deathly Hallows is the first book I've read in a long, long time.

Summer passes in a flurry of babysitting jobs and work, and I find myself standing in my new dorm room before I know it. I've already unpacked, neatly folding away my clothes in the wooden dresser next to the bed I claim as mine. The room is stale, and I'm opening the window to let in some of the cool, Michigan air when I get my first glimpse of Rachel Odgin. I don't take long in assessing her. Clearly she's that stupid, new freshman from out of state who underestimated the size of the dorms, judging by the numerous overstuffed suitcases and boxes her parents are struggling to unload out of the mini-van. I spare a moment of pity for whoever is her roommate, and go back to organizing my school supplies in my desk.

I'm not quite finished with the first drawer when I hear the tell-tale sounds of luggage being dragged outside the door. There's a heavy, single knock, and I open the door to greet my new roommate. The smile on my face flatters when I recognize the blonde girl in front of me, arms full and leg still extended to kick the door again.

"Hi!" she says, undeterred though I've forgotten my manners and haven't moved let her in. "156, right?"

"Honey, I'm going to drop this soon," her mother says in a strained voice from behind her. I jump aside, blushing, and politely offer to help her with the rest of her things since I've got my main things put away.

Rachel ends up making good use of the space below her bed, but the room is still uncomfortably cramped. In addition to the two giant bean bags she brought, she and her father spend an hour assembling an IKEA bookshelf in a corner.

This task I don't offer to help with. I do my best to ignore it, trying to mentally convey my distaste other intruding on my space without asking me if I wanted a bookshelf at all. And the books she has-! She's brought at least a hundred books with her, and none of them are textbooks. In comparison, I've only brought one book, The Deathly Hallows, that lays tucked away in my desk. Her parents are long gone by the time she notices me fuming silently, and when she asks what's wrong, I say nothing.

Rachel isn't completely unbearable for our first month as freshmen, besides her general untidiness, habit of stealing my hairbrush, and apparent desperate need to be best friend with me when I'm busy studying. She's majoring in journalism, and spends her free time typing at her laptop. The typing doesn't become a problem until three weeks into the semester and she's up at 1 in the morning, her Mac's backlight illuminating the room with harsh light that plays off the white walls and leaves me unable to sleep. I sit up and squint at her.

"Can't you do your homework earlier?"

She doesn't stop typing as she replies, "This isn't homework."

"Then," I say tightly, irritated and too grumpy to care, "what the hell are you doing?"

"I'm writing fanfiction, specifically Harry Potter fanfiction. Did you see that I've got both the British and American versions? You can borrow them when you want, they're on the bottom shelf."

"Wonderful. What a perfectly acceptable reason to be up at this time of night."

I'm certain I've coated the statement with so much heavy sarcasm that it's dropped to the floor, but Rachel doesn't seem to notice. She brightens, flicks on the lamp on her desk, and brings the laptop over to me, sitting on my bed. I cringe at the sudden increase of light.

"Great!" I cautiously open one eye only to shut it again just as fast. The Word document shines brightly, but from my brief glimpse I see that she's on her 76th page. I groan. 76th pages of writing, and she spending her creativity on something like _fan fiction_?

"You're smart, I know it. I know you were the one who corrected my rough draft I left laying around. The professor loved the revisions. Maybe you could do the same for me? You know, edit my story for me? It's really good, it's about -"

"No. I'm too busy. Goodnight."

I roll back over, signaling an end to the conversation.

"I'll pay you, and it won't take that long. I can print it out so you can carry it with you."

"Not. Interested."

"Ten dollars a chapter. I've already got three written, that's thirty dollars right there."

Thirty dollars is a nice sum, but it's late, and I'm way too tired to think about the number of real, non-cafeteria lunches that will buy me.

"You couldn't pay me a million dollars to carry that load of crap around campus. Now. Good. Night."

The words are antagonistic, and the bite my tone adds to them makes it worse. I feel Rachel freeze through the covers.

"If you read it," she says, masking the hurt by giving her words the sharp edge of righteous anger, "and still think that it's crap, fine. You'd probably be right. But since you haven't read it, you don't get to say anything."

I pretend to ignore her, but she doesn't move. After about thirty seconds, I give her a push. She's heavier than me, though, and is able to brace herself against the floor.

"Get the fuck off my bed."

"You're prejudiced. It's just a story. Don't you like Harry Potter?"

"Yes," I growl. "I do."

"Then why -"

"Look, I don't want to read about my favorite story being completely desecrated by amateurs who can't spell. If they were any good, they'd get published and work on a real book instead of fantasizing about characters having wild sex. Now shut up and get off my bed, and don't ask me about your stupid, washout story that disgraces the entire Harry Potter series. Some of us are trying to study for an education and live in the real world."

Rachel gets up, and there's a tense silence while she shuts down the laptop and crawls into bed.

"You could have said you were a canon snob instead of being such a bitch about it."

Those are her last words before she reaches over and flicks off the light.

* * *

Two weeks pass, and Rachel still isn't speaking to me any more than necessary, and when we do speak, then the exchange is curt and short. In the beginning, I was fine with this new relationship - my hairbrush no longer was mysteriously disappearing - but the passive aggressive silence was beginning to get on my nerves. I tell myself that the reason that I finally decide to try to make amends is to stop her childish silent treatment, and not the lingering guilt at the back of my mind. It's a Thursday afternoon when I'm alone in the dorm. Rachel's at the gym and then is staying the night with her boyfriend. She's left her laptop up, and I slide into her chair, intent on correcting her story and calling that my apology.

I don't know what her story is called, and a look at her recent documents doesn't help narrow down which one it is, since the titles don't have the words "Harry Potter" in them. I check the task bar, and her homepage, a fan fiction site, pops up. The site's blue and white design is hardly impressive, but the sheer number of stories submitted is astonishing, and I tsk at how many writers are wasting their talent. I click around the site for a good ten minutes before noticing that Rachel's saved her passwords automatically.

It's not exactly polite to login into someone else's account without permission, but I want to get this over with. I rub my eyes. The catchphrase is tilted and twisted, and as the sun sets and the room hits the level of twilight that makes it difficult to see, I feel like I'm twisting and tilting with the words I type in.

_Login_

_Loading…_

_24%_

I'm in, but my head suddenly feels heavy, and my body, too tight. I slump on an elbow, watching the slow internet connection for the dorms work. The bar in the corner of the browser reads out the level of completion.

_36%_

_65%_

_78%_

I swipe a hand across my forehead, and when it comes away slick with cold sweat, I wonder if I'm coming down with something. Maybe I'll just buy her breakfast instead. There's no way I'm going to edit things correctly with a fever.

_98%_

_Done_

I set my head down on the keyboard, and fall asleep.

* * *

I wake up gradually. It's cold, and my first thought is that I've kicked off my blankets in my sleep again. I grope around, but my hand meets nothing but air. I frown. I'm becoming more uncomfortable as my body starts sending me signals of pain from the hard surface I'm laying on. Through the thin material of my hoodie, I can tell that whatever I'm lying on is rough and smells rather bad. Reluctantly I open my eyes, and almost lose my balance from standing up so fast.

It's night, but the lone streetlight on the side of the residential neighborhood I'm standing next to shows that the streets are cobbled, and there's a number of old-fashioned, European-style houses. There's a few people out, but no-one seems to have seen me, or maybe I looked too much like a homeless person lying on the street for them to care.

I shiver and cross my arms. The cold has seeped into every fiber of my being, and I need to get inside somewhere. I take a second glance at my surroundings, and my breathing becomes shallower. I don't recognize this place at all. I'm alone, at night, without my cell phone or purse, and, and, and –

I slap myself sharply. It's possible this is a prank. It's far too realistic to be a dream. Or perhaps something happened to me and I hit my head. It would be okay. I'm going to be okay. I'll ask for a phone and call my mom and explain the situation to her, she'd come pick me up, and I could go home.

"Really, James, the twins will be fine for one night. Stop worrying!"

The playful tone isn't what catches my attention. It's the accent, purely British, that makes me turn. There's a couple sitting on the low, stone wall that lines the sidewalk behind me, and their kind expressions give me courage to start slinking towards them.

"I know, but you saw what happened last time! What if David gets hold of the nanny's wand again? She was throwing up for days; we barely got her to agree to return with a raise. Oh, hello! Didn't see you there. Happy Halloween!"

They both start when they realize I'm less than three feet away from them. I give a polite smile.

"Happy Halloween," I say. Halloween is a few weeks away, but there's nothing wrong with celebrating early. "Excuse me, but, um, I forgot my cell phone. Could I borrow yours?"

The couple exchange confused looks.

"I'm sorry," the woman says after a moment. "We don't have any cell phones."

"Oh!" I say. "I'm sorry, of course. You're on vacation, of course you wouldn't have service. Is there a gas station nearby at all?"

"No," says the man, James. "We live here. If you like, you can come with us to the restaurant. I'm sure they'll have a phone for you to use. You don't sound like you're from around here." I nod, they stand up, and we start walking. James is the one who breaks the slightly awkward silence that's fallen. "So, where are you from?"

"Lansing, Michigan." They still look confused, and I try to make it clearer. "It's about 3 and a half hours away from Chicago?"

James gives a sound of acknowledgement. "What are you here for, then?"

I can't blame him for being slightly suspicious of a stranger, and I'm about to explain that I have no idea where I am or what I'm doing, but I'm interrupted by the woman.

"Oh!" says the woman. "We haven't introduced ourselves! Forgive my manners. I'm Lily Potter, and that man over there is my husband, James."

I freeze, and for the first time since I approached them, study my companions in the light of someone's windows.

They're both wearing out-of-style clothing, and the man's glasses are what I consider to be hideous. They frame hazel eyes, and his black hair is completely wild. The woman, who I thought was a brunette, has rich, red hair, and the stunning green eyes convince me that I've gone insane.

I pinch myself. That doesn't seem to wake me up, so I slap myself. None of my surroundings change, though the left side of my face is now twice as sore.

"What day is it?"

James has his hand tucked away in his jacket, and I briefly entertain the thought of him having a wand, but my own hysterical thoughts drown it out.

"October 31."

I swallow, trying to work past my suddenly dry mouth.

"And, and the year?"

Now they exchange alarmed looks.

"1981. Listen, dear, are you feeling alright –"

Lily is a little too late in asking. I throw up, one arm supporting my weight against the cottage. There's a hand on neck, holding my hair back, but I don't acknowledge it other than a feeling of shame that adds to my confusion and panic as I continue to make a mess on the street.

She hands me a piece of cloth when I'm finished, and gives me some space as I wipe away a few stray tears and clean up a bit.

"'Un," I say, a little hoarsely.

"Sweetie, you don't need to talk right now. We'll take you home and you can have some water, okay?"

It's a little weird being called "sweetie" by someone who's obviously only a few years older than me, but there are far more important things to talk about. Why weren't the Potters home?

"Run!" I say, this time clearer. My throat burns in protest. "Voldemort's going to attack your house tonight!"

There's a swishing sound, and James is pointing his wand at my heart. I'm not scared, though; to me, it's still a piece of wood.

"How do you know this?"

"I'm from the future. Now _go home!_"

What am I _doing, _telling these story-book characters to go home to their possible death?But this wasn't right – Lily and James Potter must be home during the night of Voldemort's attack , or else Harry dies.

I'm trying to think of how to explain when Lily and James gasp in unison.

"The wards!" Lily breathes. Now all three of us have panic written on our faces.

"She knew it would happen, she's coming with us."

My wrist is caught in an almost-painful grasp by James. There's a brief moment of darkness and tightness and _nothing,_ and then we're standing in front of a two story house that appears to be on fire.

"The twins!" cries Lily, and dashes into the house. James stays behind long enough to make ropes appear out of nowhere and wrap around me before he follows his wife. I topple over, unable to balance, and lay there in the dirt. I hear sharp cracks around the garden, and British voices calling out, yet although I count at least 4 different people nobody walks across my path or hears my worn-out voice. I close my eyes. I'm in my favorite childhood story, and it's going horribly wrong. The ground is cold, and I start shivering. This is impossible. How am I here? What was I doing last? I remember…my roommate. Something about Rachel? Maybe I was crazy, and that's why everything feels a little fuzzy. I'm hallucinating. But it's so real…and yet, if I'm in Harry Potter, why weren't the Potters home tonight? Nothing was making sense.

"She's here! I've got her!"

Hands lift me up, and the ropes around my feet disappear. I stumble forward into the house with the guidance of a man who I recognize as Sirius Black. I'm not in the mood to be excited about meeting him at the moment. I look around the living room. There's a collection of characters I'm familiar with – Dumbledore, Sirius, Remus Lupin, the Potters, and – who's that?

On Lily's lap is a young boy with black hair and green eyes, but it isn't Harry Potter who I was looking at. No, what caught my attention is the _other, red-headed boy _in James's lap.

" – David is the Boy-Who-Lived?" asks Lily, voice raising so everyone can hear the conversation she's having with Dumbledore.

Dumbledore nods gravely. "I'm afraid so. David has defeated Voldemort this very night, and has been marked by magic for his troubles." He reaches out and taps on David's bandaged right arm. "He is the child of the prophecy."

"Wait," I interrupt. "You're wrong." I feel the hostile and suspicious gaze of those in the room, but continue on. "Harry is the one who defeats Voldemort. And he doesn't have a twin. This 'David,'" I make quotations around the name, "doesn't exist."

There's shocked gasps around the room.

"Excuse me?" Sirius glares at me. "I'm David's godfather. Don't you dare tell me he doesn't exist."

"He doesn't exist!" I say even more forcefully. I cross the room and crouch in front of David. Someone's shouting at me, but I don't care. My vision is tunneling as I look into the baby's innocent, hazel eyes.

"You don't exist," I whisper. "You're _wrong_."

I reach out to touch him and where my fingertip makes contact with his forehead, time seems to freeze, and the room dissolves into a sea of white that carries me away. And that's when I realize with a jolt, when the whiteness clears from my vision and I see Number 4, Privet Drive in front of me, that I remember what I was doing and where I now am. I'm not in the Harry Potter stories. I'm not walking through the gracefully written world of JK Rowling. I'm stuck in the bane of fiction, where canon characters are ripped to pieces and Mary Sues abound.

I'm in the world of fan fiction, and I have no idea how to get out.

* * *

**AN: Please read!**

****This is an idea. If I get over enough reviews, favorites, or follows, I'll know people are interested in reading more and I'll continue it. Yes, I know that the main character is dissing fan fiction a lot. She's doing that now, but that's a part of the story and her own personal character development.

If I continue, I'll be parodying fanfictions. I'll also be mentioning fanficitons I've read and respected in the AN. Either way, please review if you're interested in reading more.


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